Fugo had watched Mista trail after Bucciarati, looking like a kicked puppy abandoned by its owner. The pitiful glances he kept shooting Giorno, who pointedly did not look at him, were enough to make Fugo feel bad for the guy.

Not that he really blamed Giorno; he had work to do and Mista could be, well, stifling sometimes. Everyone had their moments when it came to that, really. For example, Narancia seemed dead set on not leaving Fugo's side at all anymore, even though Abbacchio had already promised not to do anything. Fugo hoped that meant the man believed him but knew it was likely that he just didn't want to upset Bucciarati further. Again, Fugo couldn't blame him.

He'd wanted the others to get fixed up first but Narancia was having absolutely none of it. As endearing as it was, Fugo just sort of felt he didn't really deserve to get healed before the rest since he wasn't even there to help them. And because it was his fault the safehouse was burnt down, despite what everyone kept saying. Well, everyone but Abbacchio.

Still, when Narancia had his mind set, changing it was near impossible and Fugo knew this. It didn't help either when the boy explained to Giorno how his wounds weren't burns but actual injuries from gunshots. Fugo had tried to argue that he was fine; he made it there in one piece and was still on his feet after all, right?

But then Abbacchio had just sighed and prodded him sharply in the left side, finger digging into the flesh right above the bullet in his gut and he nearly doubled over as stars danced across his vision. That had been enough for Giorno to set his sights on Fugo.

If Fugo had thought Narancia was stubborn, clearly he hadn't met Giorno yet.

The blond's hands had been gentle, careful with the wounds on his side and shoulder as Gold Experience's fingers danced across the flesh, knitting it together with quickened expertise. Giorno was rapidly becoming the gang's resident doctor because of that.

He had murmured softly to Fugo to not let Abbacchio bother him, that the man had already forgiven him, and Fugo wondered just how Giorno thought he knew that. When he'd tried to apologize for the boy's injuries, Giorno had cut him off with a stern glare that rivalled Bucciarati's on the best of days and he'd given up the idea of protesting.

His ankle was deemed well enough to heal on its own since there was no visible injury and Giorno didn't want to mess with anything that was purely internal. That was fine with Fugo; it didn't hurt much anyways and Narancia seemed set on using it as an excuse to bundle up next to his side. Not that Fugo minded that either.

Abbacchio had gone next, much to the man's chagrin. He'd tried to insist that he was perfectly fine and that he didn't need any help, especially not from Giorno, but when Trish had quietly asked him what Bucciarati would think about that, the guy had gone as pale as his hair.

He'd pushed up his right sleeve to reveal a blistered burn wound across a gouge in the skin from where he'd tried to cauterize it himself. There was a scar above it, an old, marred injury stretching nearly the span of his entire forearm and once again Fugo was left wondering just how much he didn't know about Abbacchio.

Giorno had healed the half-burnt wound with ease before instructing him to show him his back as well. Abbacchio had rolled his eyes and sighed sufferingly but obeyed and shrugged off his coat, a burn on one of his shoulder blades likely from backing into a burning wall. Fugo wondered how Giorno had even noticed it.

When Giorno passed Abbacchio off to Trish to get the smaller things bandaged and treated, Narancia went next, and Fugo was pleased to see that the boy had next to no serious injuries at all.

It seemed everything just looked worse than it actually was. His skin was red but there were almost no blisters except for a few small ones on his palms and Giorno fixed them but was certain the other red patches would heal with time, like a sunburn. There were a few bruises on his torso but nothing serious and the cut above Narancia's left eye had already scabbed over.

Trish was last, and the only thing that really needed healing were her feet, which had blistered on the soles because of the heat against her leather boots.

In hindsight, Fugo thought that it was a very good thing that the rest of Trish was pretty much perfectly fine because the second Giorno had finished with the last of the sores on her feet, Gold Experience immediately dissipated and the boy pitched sideways. He would've collapsed onto the ground if Abbacchio hadn't shot his arms out to catch him, his true feelings for once showing on his face as he eyed Giorno with an expression of shock and concern.

"Giorno?!" That was Narancia's voice, laced with fear as he and Fugo rushed to the fallen boy. Abbacchio was holding him carefully, laying him on the ground with a gentleness that Fugo wouldn't have expected from him.

"Go get Bucciarati," Abbacchio growled and Narancia tore off as fast as he could. "Fugo, help me examine him."

The blond nodded and moved to Giorno's side. Had they missed an injury or something? Was his headwound worse than they'd thought? His mind rushed through a million scenarios a minute as he pressed a hand to Giorno's forehead. Cool, clammy almost, with a shiny sheen sweat of across it. His skin was pale, looking almost white in the moonlight.

Abbacchio had pressed two fingers between the boy's chin and neck when Fugo heard voices and looked up to see Mista racing towards them, Bucciarati and Narancia hot on his heels.

"What the fuck do you-"

Fugo was up and intercepting Mista before the man could get close enough to do something he'd regret, grabbing his shoulders tightly as he said quickly, "He's just taking his pulse. Calm down."

Mista scowled furiously at Fugo before he cursed under his breath and wrenched himself away, stalking over to where Abbacchio and Trish were inspecting Giorno.

"If I find out you had anything to do with this," he growled, jabbing a finger at Abbacchio. The man just rolled his eyes and went back to what he was doing. Mista looked like he was going to start screaming again but then Bucciarati reached them and Fugo thanked whatever God was looking out for them. The last thing they needed was Mista at Abbacchio's throat for something he didn't even do.

"What happened?" Bucciarati asked, striding over to kneel next to Giorno. Fugo watched as the man brushed his hand along the boy's forehead in a gentle show of affection before pulling away and reassuming his role as their calm, collected capo.

"He just fell over," Abbacchio replied. "He finished healing Trish's feet and then collapsed. His pulse is a little erratic but nothing's seriously wrong with it."

"He's cold," Fugo offered, remembering how Giorno's skin had felt beneath his hand. "And clammy, though I'm sure you've felt for yourself."

"Is it his head?" Mista asked, hovering next to the blond as close as he could without moving him. He'd inserted his hand into Giorno's and Fugo had to make sure he'd give him hell for it later assuming everything was fine. Now wasn't the time for teasing though. "Maybe it's worse than we thought, what if it's a concussion, what if he's bleeding, what if-"

"I know."

Five heads whipped back to stare at Trish, who looked surprisingly calm given the situation.

"What did you just say?" Bucciarati asked.

"I said I know what this is," the girl repeated, stepping forward as she held out a hand to count off Giorno's symptoms. "Clammy, pale skin, sweating, erratic pulse, no visible abnormalities. This is like what happened to my mom when she first started getting sick."

"Then what is it?!" Mista practically screamed.

"It's exhaustion." Her answer was met with silence and she sighed before explaining, "He fainted because of fatigue. There's nothing seriously wrong with him."

"But you said your mom-"

"Because she had cancer and didn't know it yet," Trish snapped. "Fatigue is a sign. We just didn't realize the cause at the time and the doctors said she passed out because she was tired. It doesn't mean he has cancer, you dumbass."

"…You said he collapsed right after he finished healing you?" Bucciarati murmured. When Trish nodded, the capo seemed to deflate, the adrenaline dissipating somewhat.

"It makes sense," Fugo agreed, knowing no one else was going to point it out. "We've both wondered if Gold Experience had a limit when it came to healing, Bucciarati. Giorno's never had to fix us all at once; perhaps he simply reached that proverbial limit"

"You're right," Bucciarati agreed and hearing it from the capo seemed to soothe the others, Mista especially.

"If something's actually wrong, we won't know until he wakes up," Abbacchio pointed out as he stood up. "Might as well assume the best for now until we can know more."

"I have the turtle!"

Fugo just now noticed that Narancia had vanished from the group as they discussed the problem but now he was hurrying back to them, waving Coco Jumbo in the air like some kind of toy.

"Be careful with him!" Fugo snapped, smacking Narancia's head as he rested a hand on his hip. "What if you dropped it?"

"Yeah but I didn't," Narancia scowled, rubbing the back of his head as he held the turtle out to Bucciarati. "I got him, Bucciarati! Did I do good?"

"Yes, well done, Narancia." The brunet preened at Bucciarati's praise as the capo took Coco Jumbo into his own hands, announcing, "Although it would be best to not move him, we should just let Giorno rest in the turtle for now. We need to get away from here, before reinforcements arrive. Sooner rather than later. I can take the first shift driving."

"I'll stay in the car with you," Abbacchio said and Bucciarati nodded.

"The rest of you, in the turtle. As for Giorno, I'll-"

"I'll do it."

Before anyone could argue with him, Mista had swung Giorno up into his arms like the boy weighed nothing at all, cradling the blond against his chest with a softness that Fugo never would've associated him with before. As he moved into the turtle, expression gentle and worried, Fugo began to realize that maybe Mista's feelings for the boy were more serious than he'd initially thought.

It made him wonder if Mista knew that.


It was dark in the turtle when Fugo awoke, the lights off and the sound of faint snoring coming from beside him.

He must've fallen asleep at some point because the last thing he remembered was promising Bucciarati to watch over the others while they got some rest. The capo had clearly seemed frazzled now that things were finally calming down again and Fugo was quick enough to catch on that he wanted some alone time with Abbacchio - or at least as alone as they could get, being in the car while the others were in the turtle.

Narancia and Trish had gone first, the girl eyeing Mista silently before she sat down on the chair she'd assumed the position of for nearly the whole trip now. When Fugo followed, Mista had already set Giorno down on the couch. He'd taken a seat on the shorter end of the sectional with the blond's head resting in his lap, the rest of him splayed out across the long end. Mista looked up at the others as they had entered, running his fingers through Giorno's hair. He must've undone the braid at some point, Fugo realized, as well as unbuttoning his collar.

If it had been any other time, he would've made some kind of wisecrack about trying to undress the blond but it just didn't feel right to do so right now.

Instead, he'd simply headed over to the other armchair that Narancia wasn't occupying and thudded into it heavily, not realizing how exhausted he really was until he was finally resting.

He'd waved Bucciarati's worry off and said he'd watch the others. The capo had smiled softly at him before disappearing out of the turtle to join Abbacchio in the car. The white-haired man had convinced him to let him take the first turn driving and Fugo had a sneaking suspicion that something was wrong but wisely chose to ignore it for now.

Now, though, now seemed a good time to think about it.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep after all, hadn't even noticed he had until he woke up since it had been thankfully dreamless. It seemed unlikely that the capo hadn't noticed but maybe he'd just thought it was best to let them all rest.

Something shifted to Fugo's left and he glanced over to see Narancia curled up in the armchair beside him, pushed as close to Fugo's as it could get, and he wondered when the boy had done that. His hands were curled around the arm of Fugo's chair, like he'd wanted to cuddle next to Fugo but had chosen not to. He must've woken up at some point, Fugo thought vaguely as he reached out to entwine his fingers with the boy's. Narancia mumbled something in his sleep but didn't wake, fingers unconsciously wrapping around Fugo's in return, and a pinch of fondness bloomed in his chest. Another reason to be thankful he'd chosen to come back.

The others all seemed to be sleeping as well. Trish was curled tightly into her chair with her knees pulled up and her head resting atop them. It didn't look very comfortable but he figured it was more that it felt secure that she was able to sleep like that.

Mista and Giorno had also moved at some point in the night because now they were both stretched across the couch, pressed together as close as lovers. Giorno must have woken up at some point because Fugo was certain Mista wouldn't have done that without the blond's permission. Hell, it had probably been Giorno's idea in the first place.

Mista's arm was flung around the boy's waist, Giorno's back against the couch and head resting in the crook of Mista's shoulder. Their legs were tangled together messily but judging by their peaceful expressions, neither of them seemed to mind.

As Fugo surveyed the room, he became aware of faint whispering coming from elsewhere.

At first, he tensed, fearing that maybe someone had gotten in, that another enemy had appeared while they were vulnerable, but as he focused in on them, he realized it was coming from outside of the turtle.

Bucciarati and Abbacchio.

He should just go back to sleep.

If either of them found out that he was snooping on them, he'd get in big trouble. At least with Abbacchio. Bucciarati would just be disappointed - which, honestly, was worse. And they were probably just talking about couple stuff; so what if they had never made it 'official' to the group, everyone knew. Fugo didn't want to hear that kind of thing.

He should just go back to sleep.

Fugo pulled his hand from Narancia's and stood, inching towards the gem-roof ceiling to hear better.

It was that little niggling feeling, that constant voice in the back of his mind that was telling him something wasn't right, that was driving him on. And by now, he'd learned to act on those feelings.

"You have to tell them," Abbacchio was saying, his words muffled by the Stand's barrier but as long as Fugo stayed still and focused, he could there without much problem.

"I can't do that." That was Bucciarati.

"You can," Abbacchio insisted. "You just don't want to. There's a difference, Bruno."

"We don't need to deal with it right now," the capo argued. "It will just cause more stress for them all and that's the last thing they need."

"They aren't kids, Bruno. They can handle it."

"Of course they-"

"You know what I mean." Fugo could make out through the crimson-tinted glass that Abbacchio was gesturing something before reaching back to brush his hair over his shoulder. "I'm not sure any of them are kids anymore. Not with the shit they've seen."

"…It was his first time." What? Whose first time? Doing what?

Abbacchio sighed. "I know."

"And I wasn't there to-"

"You couldn't have done anything differently. It was only a matter of time. The brat knew what he was getting into." Ah. So they were talking about Giorno. Still, that only answered the who, what were they getting at? Did Fugo miss-

"Taking a life is never any easy thing."

Oh.

Oh.

Wait, hadn't Giorno- Fugo ran through the list of fights in his mind. From what he'd told them about Luca, the coma and following death had been unintentional and pretty much Luca's fault in the end. Illuso, Fugo had ultimately killed himself with the help of Haze's virus. Giorno was the one who killed Baby Face's user but he'd sent a snake to do it. He hadn't really been there. The White Album battle - he'd killed the user in retaliation to what he'd done to Mista and Fugo honestly woulda done the same, probably worse. But still, those were deaths Giorno had caused. Fugo was confused how this was any different.

"-called that's just idiotic." He'd missed what Abbacchio had begun to say back and cursed under his breath as he focused back in. "The fuck did they expect? Normal dudes?"

"They were normal themselves," Bucciarati said. "I would be surprised that they were sent after us except for their advantage of sheer numbers. It's the kind of cowardly tactic I would expect from the Boss."

So they weren't Stand users. Fugo didn't know how that made it any different, but then again, he wasn't Giorno. And he never could read the guy, so who fucking knew?

"Mista said something about fear," Bucciarati added suddenly. It made more sense now that the capo said that; Fugo must've been asleep when all this happened, which would explain why he didn't quite get the conversation and why Giorno and Mista had moved positions on the couch.

"That Giorno was muttering something about it in his sleep," Bucciarati continued, "but never said anything coherent. Perhaps it has something to do with that."

Abbacchio nodded in agreement before shaking his head. "Stop trying to distract me, Bruno. We're talking about you."

"Must we?"

Something must have happened, thankfully out of Fugo's sight because the next thing he heard was Abbacchio murmuring, "…Stop distracting me. I'm driving." And Fugo could've sworn that his voice had lowered an octave.

Gross. It was like listening to his parents flirt. Well, more like older brothers. Fugo didn't like comparing anyone to his parents.

"You know what they'll say when they find out," Abbacchio continued, and judging by the way Bucciarati's arm moved away across the roof, the capo must have agreed. "They'll be hurt that you didn't trust them."

"It's not that I don't trust them. I just don't want them to blame themselves."

"Back to Giorno again? Really, ya wonder why I hate the kid so much when all you do is talk about him all the damn time."

"We both know that isn't true," and Fugo had to wonder what Bucciarati meant by that: that Abbacchio didn't hate Giorno? Or that Bucciarati didn't talk about him that much? In Fugo's completely objective perspective, the capo was referring to the first.

"I just don't get why you took such a shine to him," Abbacchio said. "Sure, the kid's smart, I'll give him that. He's more resourceful than the others, probably even more than Fugo if I'm being completely honest-" Fugo resented that but had to grudgingly admit that it was true "-but something about him just doesn't feel right. Seems so… bitter, almost. He just… he rubs me the wrong way. He's fifteen but acts like he's got the whole fucking world on his shoulders."

"He reminds you of yourself," Bucciarati said so quietly that Fugo almost missed it. Abbacchio's answer was too muffled to make out but he could hear regretful anger in the tone that caused the capo to reach back out the white-haired man, arm covering most of the window on top of the turtle.

"Do you know what Giorno reminds me of?" Bucciarati murmured. "There was a quote I read somewhere a long time ago, one that I never truly believed in until I met him."

"Which is?"

"I've got a dream worth more than my sleep."

Abbacchio laughed and at first, Fugo thought it was a scoff but it sounded too genuine for that, too warm to be insulting. "That kid and his dreams. Guess no one ever told him dreams are meant for sleep."

Bucciarati chuckled and things were quiet for so long that Fugo wondered if they were done talking. Then Bucciarati spoke up again, so soft Fugo wouldn't have heard it at all if he'd moved from atop the table a second earlier.

"No sacrifice is too great. You know it as well as I."

Abbacchio just grunted in response.

"You'll protect him, right?"

"They're family," was the man's response, and Fugo smiled at that. He knew the guy was softer than he let on. "Of course I will."

"That's not what I meant." Silence and then- "Giorno will be the one to inherit my will when I'm gone. Leone, I need you to promise me."

And there it was, that uneasy feeling was back but once again, there was nothing he could do about it right now. There was so much to unpack in those few words that Fugo wasn't sure he'd ever be able to do it. Not before… before whatever Bucciarati was getting at would happen. And still, Fugo had to wonder what expression Abbacchio was making, with what he must know.

"…I promise."

Fugo wondered what expression he, himself, was making.